


To The Nines

by ehmazing



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Summer Rose Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Jaune Arc and you shouldn't be held accountable to anything you say in a near-death circumstance or at a coronation ball. </p><p>[Summer Rose Court speculative fanfic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Nines

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I AM NOT AFFILIATED WITH SUMMER ROSE COURT IN ANY WAY!! This is 100% pure speculation, I know absolutely nothing about how the end will come about or what specific plot events will happen. I'm just a huge nerd writing a nerd fanfic, take everything in here with a grain of salt.

You are Jaune Arc and you’ve only had one glass of mead. Alright, one glass of mead and a glass of champagne, but that was for the toast and doesn’t count. You have valiantly resisted Yang and Nora’s efforts to ply you with more drink, especially after the first one they made you try was called “Wyrmfire” and tasted exactly like acid reflux. This is, after all, a coronation ball--you might not get to witness another in your lifetime, and you want to remember everything about it tomorrow morning. More importantly, it’s Ruby’s coronation, and you want it to be as perfect as possible.

You search for Ruby in the crowd and find her dancing again. You suspect she hasn’t left the dancefloor for hours, but she doesn’t look tired in the slightest, whirling around in the arms of one of Weiss’ captains. The song ends and you smile as she curtsies to her partner and then snatches Ren from his quiet spot in the corner, declaring that her first act as queen will be to eliminate party-poopers from her realm. Ren’s shoulders heave in a telltale sigh, but even at a distance you can pick out the quick upward quirk of his lips as he bows and takes her hand for the waltz. You still haven’t figured him out, but you are fairly certain that Ren is as soft-hearted as Nora is exuberant, which would make him the kindest person alive.

No, that’s wrong. Second-kindest. The kindest person alive is touching your arm now, her bracelets trickling down her wrist in a cascade of gold. Pyrrha squeezes your shoulder lightly and says, “Hello.”

You steel yourself before turning to face her because tonight you haven’t been, er, handling things very well. It began before you even entered the coronation hall: you were in line at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for your name to be announced so you could process in and take your place for the ceremony, when someone tapped you on the back. You turned around and there was Pyrrha in her ballgown; in an instant your chest felt so tight it was a struggle to breathe.

Why? You’ve seen Pyrrha every waking day for the last five months now. You’ve seen Pyrrha covered in Grimm blood, human blood, her own blood. You’ve seen Pyrrha in armor and cloaks and a peasant disguise and once--completely by accident, no matter how everyone teased--in her undergarments. But somehow a plain silk sheath made your heart jump into your throat, and you stood at the foot of the coronation hall stairs and tried very hard to remember how to speak.

“You’re--” you began, but your brain floundered over how to finish. “Beautiful” was too simple, too overused. “Gorgeous” was trying too hard, “stunning” didn’t feel quite right. You ran through every word you could think of, but nothing quite fit the definition of “perfect in every way known to human and faunuskind,” and by this time you’d paused so long Pyrrha looked concerned.

So you said, “You’re wearing a dress.”

“Yes,” Pyrrha said. “You’re wearing a suit.”

You thank every god that they called your name then, and you scurried to your station with all the grace of a headless chicken.

Things only got worse. When you spotted her sitting three tables away at the banquet, she waved and you waved back, forgetting that your waving hand was holding a ladle full of gravy that dropped right into the lap of the Minister of Finance. When the dancing began you watched as she stood and curtsied to accept the invitation of the very handsome, very rich Vytalian ambassador and stabbed your fork hard enough into your dessert that it scratched the china. When she danced a reel with Ruby they spun across the floor in a flurry of silk and giggles, careening faster and faster until Ruby lost her grip and flung Pyrrha right into your chair. Pyrrha chirped a breathless “Sorry!” as she untangled her hair from your waistcoat buttons before rejoining the cackling queen. You only nodded as the Minister of Finance announced he was changing tables.

Now, certain your hands are free of utensils, your feet are steady, and your grasp of language intact, you turn around.  

“Hey!” you reply. “Having fun?”

“Yes,” Pyrrha nods, the chains of her hairpiece glinting in the light. Alright, maybe your feet aren’t as steady as you thought. “Though I suspect not as much as Nora and Yang.”

“If they offer you something green with a straw shaped like a dragon, don’t drink it.” You shudder. “I learned the hard way.”

Pyrrha squeezes your shoulder again. “You’re not feeling ill, I hope?” She looks at you with such honest sympathy that your chest starts to tighten up again. You mentally berate yourself for ever thinking Ren's kindness could rank even second to hers.

“No, no!” You take her hand from your shoulder and squeeze it back. “I’m fine, I promise. Just don’t spin me too quickly.”

That's a mistake. Pyrrha’s concern for your well-being melts from her face to make room for that particular smile she gets when she accepts a tournament challenge. She’s already tugging you closer to the throng of dancing nobles, where Ren and Ruby are taking their end-of-waltz bows. “Is that a dance invitation?”

“Uh, it was just an expression, you know! Could be interpreted all kinds of ways.” Pyrrha’s grip on your hand does not abate.

“You did promise to--what did you say, back in the Caverns of Despair?--’show me your moves’ if we ever secured Ruby on the throne, and well,” she gestures to the ballroom, “here we are!”

Your laugh is two octaves higher than it should be. “Did I really say that?”

“You did.”

“Well, Pyrrha, you can’t hold a man to every promise he makes in the face of certain death--” But she yanks you into position as the orchestra strikes the opening notes and off you go.

You do in fact have moves. They were taught to you by your mother at your cousin’s wedding; you were ten. By some miracle you still know the basic steps, but you are moving about as smoothly as an ox pulling a plow through rocky soil. You don’t feel as passionate about Pyrrha’s dress as you did before: the hem obscures her feet completely, a dangerous blindspot.

“Jaune.” Pyrrha tips up your head with one finger under your chin. Her eyes are gentle. “You’re fine! Trust me.”

Trust her. Okay. You can do that. You keep your head up and within a few stanzas your steps are actually lighter, easier. You vaguely recall your cousin in her wedding dress, bending down to twirl under your arm, and take the risk. Pyrrha spins out perfectly, the pleats of her gown flaring out around her heels, and when you pull her back into position she’s beaming so widely you can’t help but grin back.

You find yourself getting better and better as the song goes on. You dance past Ruby and Blake, Ruby shouting gleefully, "You're next on my list, Jaune!" and Pyrrha calls back, "Not until I'm finished with him!" Her teasing pride makes you feel almost giddy, and you twirl her again, laughing as the candlelight makes her look golden and glimmering. 

The music slows to the ending notes and when you step back to bow you look at Pyrrha once more. You drink in the loose strands of hair tangled with her hair pins, the glistening skin of her shoulders, how the white silk falls over curve of her hips, her slender fingers plucking the edge of her gown from the floor as she curtsies. You feel a burning sensation in the back of your throat not unlike the taste of Wyrmfire, and decide to take another risk.

You take a deep breath.

“Pyrrha, you’re perfect in every way known to human and faunuskind,” you say, “and there’s probably an easier way to say that but I don’t know what it is, and I should’ve told you that before but I couldn't remember how to use synonyms and I had to apologize for ruining the cake plate and clean all the gravy off the Finance Minister’s pants, and thinking about pants just reminds me how tight this whole suit is but Weiss had it made for me so I felt too guilty to tell her and wow, is it warm or here or is it just from all that spinning?”

You are vaguely aware that the rest of the dancers are applauding the orchestra, but your blood pounds in your ears and drowns out everything else. Pyrrha’s face is blank. She’s still holding one edge of her skirt between her fingers, like she’s forgotten to let go. You clear your throat.

“Well, I think I just heard Ruby call me for her next dance!” you say hurriedly. “Can’t refuse a royal order, so I’ll just see you around--”

You underestimate Pyrrha’s reflexes. Before you can take one step she’s got ahold of your hand again.

“You’re right,” she says, her face still curiously neutral, “it’s much too warm in here. Why don’t we get some fresh air?”

She’s probably going to kill you. You wrack your brain for an outside location with plenty of witnesses.

“Er, okay,” you say. “The garden is open, we can walk around!” But Pyrrha starts off in the opposite direction. Soon you’re being lead through the ballroom, down the grand hall, a smaller hallway, a narrow servants’ passage, up a rickety staircase…

This is it, you think. This is the end. For five months you've fought rebels and robbers and monsters and sorcerers, and you will meet your end here on this dingy landing thanks to your complete lack of tact. Self-preservation clears your head and at last you have the courage to stop, jerking Pyrrha to a halt.

“Not that I’m not fond of adventure,” you say, choosing your words carefully, “I mean, we were just on an adventure for the last half-year! But uh, where exactly are we going within the bowels of the castle to find fresh air?”

Finally Pyrrha’s expression changes. It’s a smile, but not any smile you’ve seen her wear before. It’s not her I-accept-your-challenge smile or her happy-to-be-here smile or her secret-keeping smile. Somehow, like the dress, it’s something completely foreign, something you can’t explain. It's yet another thing about Pyrrha that doesn't wait for the signal to charge and throw you off-balance. But even now you can tell that it still belongs to the kindest person alive.

“We’re not going into the castle,” she answers. “We’re going to the roof.” She points up and indeed, there’s a trapdoor above your head.

“Right, obviously, the roof!” you say.“…Why?”

“Jaune.” Pyrrha tips up your head with one finger under your chin and kisses you. She kisses you softly, firmly, perfectly in every way known to human and faunuskind, and if there’s no word for that you’re going to have to make one up.

“Jaune,” she says, wearing that new smile with as much grace as her new gown. “Trust me.”

Trust her. Okay. You can do that. 


End file.
